The People Out There: The Lassiter Psych Out
by Gale Force
Summary: Lassiter is minding his own business, sitting on his horse during the filming of "Weekend Warriors." Next thing he knows, he's in the world of Psych and Juliet's life is on the line. Complete.


The People Out There: The Lassiter Psych-Out

by Gale Force

_**Beta, quickly. Turn on the teleinvisichrononicon. **_

_**Alpha, has your mind been melded? The Great One will has us discorporated if he finds us making unauthorized use of the teleinvisichrononicon. **_

_**No need to get your tentacles in a twist, Beta. He won't find out. He's in a conference meeting for the next two time cycles. This is too good a chance to be missed. Now turn it on!**_

_**Very well, Alpha. I hope we live to regret this.**_

Prologue

Timothy Omundson sat on the big cream-colored stallion and gazed over the heads of the re-enactors clad in the blue of the Union and the grey of the Confederacy. They were filming the last scenes of the episode "Weekend Warriors" which, because of the magic of television, would actually be the first scenes to air. But because he'd be sitting on a horse - for all of five minutes - they'd wanted to film these scenes last in case he fell off and broke his leg or something.

"Ha," thought Tim. He turned his head to the director, John Fortenberry, and said persuasively, "Come on, John. Wouldn't it be great if Lassiter galloped into this scene? Showing his horsemanship?"

"No, Tim," said John, absently, as he gazed through a monocular at the scene he was setting up.

"We've filmed the entire episode, John" continued Tim persuasively, "if I fall off... which I won't, because I'm an expert horseman... but if I _did_..."

"You might miss the start of the shoot of the _next _episode," said Fortenberry, lowering his monocular and raising an arm.

"Okay, people, silence on the set," the assistance director yelled. "We're about to let off some smoke bombs.... wait for it... and action."

There was a sound of crackling. Timothy Omundson's horse shied and almost reared. Tim gentled it with expert hands, but...

_**Now**_.

A white pain lanced through his head, and Tim let go of the reins and grabbed at his head. Then he felt himself falling...falling...

He was never going to live this down, thought Tim as he looked at the dirt. He was on his hands and knees, and there were spots in front of his eyes. He must have fallen off the damn horse.

Except...he blinked...instead of the dark blue sleeves of his woolen uniform, his arms were bare, and his sleeves were white and rolled up to just below his elbows.

What the hell? How long had he been unconscious?

Tim rose to his feet, quickly. He was about to say, "It's okay, everybody, I'm all right," but he didn't get the chance. "What the hell," he said instead. He was in the alcove that served as Carlton Lassitor's, office. But...it had a ceiling...and a single light bulb...and there were desks everywhere...and where the hell were the cameras, and the crew?

His hand went to his chin. No beard. No moustache.

"Looking for a pencil?" came a familiar voice, "or were you just trying to hide from me?"

Tim whirled. James Roday was standing just by the door, smiling at him, but at the same time poised on the balls of his feet, as if he were prepared to duck any object that came hurtling his way.

What the _hell_, thought Tim again. What was going on here? Were they trying to psych him out, or what? Well, he'd show _them_!

"Spencer," he said, calmly, and sat down behind his desk. He froze for a second. His chair...soft leather...it was heaven...then he fixed Roday with his patented glare and waited.

James just stared at him. But Tim was a master of The Glare (whereas Dule was the master of The Look) and his brilliant blue eyes never wavered.

James threw up his hands. "Okay, Lassie, you win," he said, and came further into the alcove. "You should rent those eyes out to be phasers on the _Enterprise_."

"I'm in negotiations with them even now," Tim said.

_That _caught James by surprise. He froze in the act of sitting down, giving Tim a look from between suddenly narrowed eyes. "Scary," his lips said, though no sound came out, as he seated himself at last.

"Alright, Spencer, I'm a busy man," said Tim in his best clipped tone. "What do you want?"

"Actually, I 'm here to see Juliet."

Tim stared at Roday, keeping his face expressionless, just getting in a few pieces of business with his eyes. But something was so wrong here...that was James...but it was not James...he was in his office, but it wasn't a set...he must be unconscious and dreaming, that's all there was to it...

"I'm sorry," he said, "I don't recall receiving a memo saying that Juliet and I were switching desks." He extended an arm, a hand, and then his finger. "Her desk is over there."

There. _That'd _give Roday some fodder to work with. And if the rest of the crew were hiding anywhere, they'd be busting out laughing soon...

"I know, Lassie, but she called me, and told me to meet her here. Here, as in, at your desk."

Tim narrowed his eyes.

"Were you guys working on something?" Roday said, tentatively...

"No," said Tim, quietly. Well, hell, he didn't know if they were or weren't. "What's this phone call? She left you a message?"

He watched as Roday pulled out his cellphone, punched in a few numbers, t hen held it out so he could hear it better.

"Hi, Shawn. It's Juliet. I really need to see you. Meet me in Lassiter's office as soon as you can."

"When did she leave that?" Tim demanded.

"Thirty minutes ago."

Slowly, Tim reached back into his jacket pocket (for it was hanging on the back of his chair) and pulled out his own cellphone. He pushed the button for the address book and looked at all the names and numbers listed there. None of them were _his_. They were all...he looked at the top number. It had the name Juliet. Tim licked his lips, then pressed the call button.

He looked at Roday as he listened to the rings.

Then there was a click, and Maggie's voice. "This is Juliet. I can't talk right now. Leave a message."

Tim clicked the call finished button without bothering to leave a message.

This couldn't be a joke. It wasn't funny. Roday was acting like he was really Shawn Spencer, and this building looked like a real version of the set of the Santa Barbara PD.

Words trembled on his lips. If he stayed in character, he should ask, "Don't your psychic powers tell you where she is?" but he knew James....damn...Shawn...wasn't a psychic, but he also knew that the guy had a photographic memory and great deductive ability. Why put him on the spot?

Well...because he was Lassiter.

But...Lassiter would be too concerned about his partner to indulge in a little bandinage with Spencer.

He stood up abruptly. "Let's check her desk, see if she left any notes."

Tim lagged behind just a little, letting Roday take the lead...but he would have recognized Juliet's desk...it was exactly where it was "on set."

Shawn Spencer was the detective... let _him _look. He'd better do something, though. He picked up her date book, and paged through it, while out of the corner of his eye he watched Spencer go through her desk.

When Spencer had stopped looking, he said, "Well?"

Spencer looked at him strangely. "Nothing," he said. "What's in the date book?"

Tim extended it, and after a slight hesitation - doubtless surprised at how cooperative Tim was being, Spencer took it. As he looked through it, Tim noted that his eyes flashed on a few entries. They must be significant.

"Well?" Tim repeated.

"Let's go," said Spencer, dropping the date book back on the desk and heading for the door like a man with a purpose.

Tim put his hand on his chest, and realized for the first time that he was wearing his shoulder holster rig. "Let me get my coat," he snapped, and strode on his long legs back to his little alcove. Plucking it off the back of his chair, he shrugged into it as he emerged into the hallway once more, to see Spencer waiting for him on impatiently bouncing feet.

Tim followed him out into the bright .... California...sunlight.

It had to be California... it sure as hell wasn't Canada!

His... Lassiter's car.... was parked in its spot on the street...Roday...Spencer... went straight to the passenger's side and bounced up and down impatiently. Tim took a deep breath, and fished in his pocket for the car keys. It was easy to find the one to the car, it was the only one with a black rubber mold around it. He unlocked the door, slid in, and flipped the button that unlocked the passenger's side door as well. Roday joined him in the car.

Tim put the key in the ignition, and started the car. Then he sat there, hands on the wheel at 10 and 2, staring straight ahead. This _couldn't _be happening.

"What are you waiting for, Lassie? Let's go!" said Spencer urgently.

"Just as soon as you tell me where, Spencer!" he snapped.

"Oh, yeah. Right. 53rd and Quinn, and don't spare the horses."

Although _Psych _was filmed in Canada, Tim was very familiar with the streets of San Francisco. Not to mention Santa Barbara, as he'd spent many years in California as an actor. And this _was _Santa Barbara. He'd just have to accept this and go with the flow.

As Tim drove as fast as he could toward his destination, he glanced at Spencer. "Where's Guster?" he queried. "I thought you two were joined at the hip."

"He's on another case," Spencer said, shortly.

"Hah," said Tim. Then: "So why is it that you know where Juliet is and I don't?"

"I've been wondering that as well," said Spencer, musingly. "What kind of a case would she be working on that she wouldn't tell you about?"

"One that she was doing for you, obviously. Don't think I don't know she helps you out sometimes."

"Okay, I wont' think that."

Very lame comeback, Tim thought. This Spencer wasn't so quick with the repartee without a scriptwriter to help him, eh?

"So what kind of case have you got her mixed up in?"

Spencer stared at him, blinking, as if something had just occurred to him. "She thought...she thought there was a crook in the department..."

Oh, Lassiter couldn't have let that go. Tim stamped on the brakes and brought the car to a halt on the side of the road. He twisted a bit to face Spencer. "What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Nothing at all!" Spencer's voice was just a little high. It lowered as he continued. "I mean, maybe she thought it was a friend of yours, whom you wouldn't want to suspect...."

Tim couldn't resist. He reached for his gun.

"Wasn't very smart of you, Spencer, was it, to get in a car alone with me"... he saw Spencer's eyes widen as the barrel of the gun was pointed at him... "and then accuse me of being a dirty cop...."

"But you're not a dirty cop," Spencer squeaked.

"Oh. Well, that's all right then."

Tim returned his gun to its holster, then started up the car again. Well, maybe that hadn't turned out as funny as he'd thought it would...where was a scriptwriter when you needed one.

"That's Corinthian leather you're sitting on, Spencer," he said.

"You should have thought of that _before _you pulled a gun on me," Spencer gritted. "But no, it's all right. I have bowels of steel."

They reached 53rd and Quinn and Tim stamped on the brakes.

Spencer took a quick look around. "There's Juliet's car," he cried. He started to get out of the car. Tim reached over and grabbed his arm.

"Hold on a second there, sport. Tell me exactly what we're doing here. How'd you know her car would be here."

"There's no time to explain, Lassie."

"Well, then, where is she? In that house that her car is parked in front of?"

"Got to be."

"Well, then, let's take a two-pronged approach. I'll go to the front of the house and do my thing. You go to the back of the house, and wait until you hear voices, before you do your thing. Got it?"

"Got it," said Spencer.

Tim watched Spencer disappear down a back alley. Then he took a deep breath. He couldn't believe he was doing this. Why didn't he call for backup? Well...if one of the backup was a dirty cop...

Tim took another deep breath... he couldn't believe he was doing this....

He got out of the car, settled his tie, felt for the reassuring presence of the gun...then, he imagined a director saying, "Action," and headed for the front door of the house. Once there, he executed a precise _rat a tat tat_.

No response.

At this point, Juliet should be here, so they could exchange some witty bandinage...

Oh, hell. Tim reached out, and tried the door. Unlocked.

I can't believe I'm doing this, he thought, as he took his gun out of its holster, and then, holding it ready, very slowly entered the house.

He stopped just inside the door, listening intently. All he could hear was the sound of his beating heart.

If he were a crook, who had captured a police detective... and wanted to keep her alive, please god... where would he put her? Basement? Attic? Somewhere near a bathroom would be best...

Where were the bathrooms in this place...

Before he could move, his eyes widened. Spencer was coming towards him down the hallway...with a forearm under his chin and a gun pressed to his head, and behind him, peering eyes of a man he didn't recognize.

"Spencer, you weren't supposed to come in until you heard voices!" Tim snapped, automatically.

"Shut up," said the man holding the gun.

"No, _you _shut up," said Tim. Adrenalin was pumping, but all he could hang on to were his lines as Lassiter.... what would Lassiter do?

"And stop holding that gun in my colleague's ear. Do you have _any _idea how much trouble you're in right now? No, of course you don't, because you're not very bright. But you're in a lot of trouble. And it's only going to get worse unless you get on the ground right now."

"Shut up!" said the man holding the gun, but there was a hint of panic in his voice.

"You think we came here alone?" Tim said with sarcasm dropping from every word. "There's a sniper with his scope trained on the back of your head right now, just waiting for you to move a leetle bit to the left or the right so he can get a clean shot at you."

The man crouched even lower behind Spencer, and in so doing, took the gun away from Spencer's head. Immediately, Spencer grabbed at it...they'd never gotten around to showing a flashback of Henry Spencer demonstrating the fine art of self-defense to Young Shawn, but he must have done so...

Spencer's hands were locked around the gun, trying to keep its muzzle pointed up in the air.

Tim strode forward, holding his weapon out in the approved TV-cop manner, until he was a foot away from the two struggling men, his gun pointed at the villain's face.

"I"m going to shoot you in the face unless you drop to your knees right now, buddy." he said.

He didn't have to repeat himself.

Jesus, he was good, thought Tim. He lifted his own gun up close to his face, like James Bond, and backed up a few steps...smirking... then his foot must have caught on a scrap of carpet because he felt himself falling ....falling...

_**Now**_.

He was on his hands and knees, staring down at dusty ground.

Dusty ground?

Timothy looked at his arms... blue woolen sleeves....

He got up. The director, John Fortenberry, had a hand in front of his face as he asked, "Are you alright, Tim?"

"I'm fine," said Tim, with dignity. "I'm fine."

"Alright. I think we've got enough scenes of you on the horse, anyway."

"Don't be silly," said Tim. "You need at least one more."

And even as he got back on the horse, the events that had just occurred seemed to fade away...as if they had been nothing more than a waking dream...

"Come on, John," he said, "that was just a fluke. Let me gallop into the scene. It'd really impress my fans..."


End file.
